Chapter One

A light drizzle splashed on the shutters blockading the windows to Maerad's room. A pasty white candle sat on her desk burning steadily down—wax already dribbling down the edges to harden into veins trailing down the length of the pillar—was casting a golden glow within the room. Frustrated, she threw the quill she had been gripping in her palm onto the wooden surface. Then, remembering it had belonged to her dear friend, Dernhil, she scooped it back up and smoothed out the feathers. Before her lay sheet upon sheet of paper—all displaying a cluster of messy chicken scratched words and phrases.

She had been in Innail for nearly a month, continuing her studies and yet, her writing had yet to improve. Elbows on the desk, she buried her face in her hands—one missing two fingers—and glared angrily into the darkness. Hem, her brother, was no where to be found—at least no where near the bardhouse—and Irc, his white crow, was missing as well. At least he's not alone. Maerad huffed in her mind, Where's Cadvan when I need him?

She pushed back the chair she had been sitting on for the past hour, its legs scratching against the polished oak floorboards. Sweeping her cloak off of her bed, she stepped through the door and into the hallway. Swinging her head around, she saw no one—not a bard nor student. "Strange," She murmured under her breath, "Did they all get chased away by the rain? It's nothing—just a sprinkle."

A hand clasped her shoulder and she whirled around, her maimed hand reaching for the hilt of her sword—one she was accustomed to have strapped around her waist. Cadvan's boots squeaked against the floor as he stepped back, raising his hands over his head, he shot her a quirky grin, "Maerad, what a pleasure. I was just coming to fetch you."

Maerad swore softly as she let her hand drop away from her sword, "Cadvan, don't do that."

"I swear I won't ever again," Cadvan chuckled, his eyes sparkling, "If you will accompany me—a group of players have traveled far and are setting up to perform."

"In the rain?" Maerad gasped, "Won't they get drenched?"

Cadvan shrugged, "Wet, yes."

"Then what is the point?" Maerad huffed taking a step back towards her room, "I'd prefer not to get drenched like a wet dog."

Cadvan lurched forward and grasped her hand, pulling her towards him, "Now, I think you have been cooped up far too long today. It is time to stretch those legs of yours. Hem and Saliman are expecting us—what would I tell them if you did not choose to show your face?"

Maerad's eyes shot up to his, "I need to perfect my writing."

"You will have plenty of time for that." Cadvan assured her, "And you have been doing nothing else since you arrived here."

Sighing, she stepped away from her door, "Fine."

Cadvan pulled her close and pressed his lips against the top of her head for such a short moment, Maerad wasn't sure if it happened at all. "That is more like it."

Wrapping her slender fingers around his rough, calloused hands, she smiled up at him, "I hope you realize I am doing this for Hem—not for you."

Taken by surprise, Cadvan paused in his step, his face frozen in complete shock. Maerad laughed, pulled her hand away and made a mad dash down the hall—stopping only to wink at him before turning the corner.

Hem tapped his foot impatiently, fingers drumming against the cold stone of the paved ground. Irc shifted eagerly on his shoulder, shaking stray drops of water from his pearly white wings. The rain had stopped and the sun was beginning to peek out from behind the cheerlessly gray clouds casting a dazzling glow through the air.

Hem had no idea where Saliman, Cadvan, or Maerad were—and for the moment, he couldn't care. Instead, his focus was directed towards the stage where the players would soon appear and dazzle him. Henkibel—he knew—was already behind the curtains helping her old friends—just reunited—by playing minor parts in their production. Deep down, he felt an urge to join her, play some part—yet the whole of him shouted that he would not only stumble on his lines, but stumble over his feet as well. Sighing, he stayed put.

Irc cheeped and nuzzled his neck. Hem reached up and tickled his friend's throat with his index finger mindlessly. Already, people had started to gather around him and the stage, squeaking excitedly about how it was about time the players returned while some mumbled about how good it should be—given the players' expertise. I am hungry. Irc peeped in Hem's mind, Feed me?

Later, after the show. Hem said adamantly.

He drowned out the rest of Irc's pleading by choosing to people-watch instead. What he saw next almost made his eyes pop out of his head. Rubbing his face and pinching his arms, he looked again. It cannot be! He shouted.

Irc paused in confusion, What is it?

In front of him—not far in the crowd—stood a girl, her ocean of brown curls fell over her face. She had the light-brown skin of those Hem had become familiar with when he and Saliman were in Turbansk—and her face; he'd never forget that face. Jumping up, he made a rush towards her—Irc flapping into the air in bewilderment. Tears of surprise and happiness trickled down Hem's cheeks. Who is it? Irc asked, who is it?

Hem paused to swipe his sleeve across his face and glanced at Irc, It's Zelika.